


Connor Guerrin

by DAfan7711



Series: Beyond Circle, Beyond Order [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Other, Self-Discovery, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-17 22:13:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4683272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After he was freed from demonic possession at age ten, Connor Guerrin was sent to live with other mages in Ferelden’s Circle Tower. Now a grown man and powerful Enchanter, war forces him back to Redcliffe and separates him from his best friend, Dagna. He doesn’t know who is more dangerous: his fellow mages, the Magister, or the Inquisition’s agents. His life has always been in the hands of others as their tool or pawn, but now perhaps it’s time for the world to see him as himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not so welcome

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read alone or as a companion story to The King and the Inquisitor.

When Connor arrived at the Ferelden Tower, a company of well-groomed Templars, Novices, and Enchanters met his entourage with a formal welcome proper for an Arl’s son. After Connor’s chaperones left to return to Redcliffe, the mood changed: Templars and mages alike looked at him askance, abruptly turned down side halls if they saw him approach.

When his back was turned, hissed whispers reverberated off the stone walls: _abomination_ , when he was in the library; _blood mage_ , when he undressed in the shared bathing room; _demon_ , when he stood in line for his first meal in his new “home.” He hadn’t been there twelve hours and he had encountered more vicious hatred than he’d seen in his whole life. It was worse than the jealous nobles who visited his father’s castle, the home he could never return to because he was born with magic.

_Wrong. I can’t ever go back because I made a pact with a demon._

The official Chantry documents said he was to “be sent to the Circle Tower where he will no longer pose a danger to the innocent.”

Yes, he was a danger. A monster. Everyone knew it to be true, except for two of the people he had thanked for saving him. Lady Cousland and Cousin Alistair said the demon’s undead minions had killed all those villagers instead of him. Connor knew better. So did the witch who had saved him in the Fade. He was ten, not a baby. He could read, write, and reason better than most common-born adults, and many adult nobles. He knew he’d let the demon in to this world and he had to carry the responsibility, just as his father was accountable for the actions of each one of his soldiers, servants, and allies.

After Lady Cousland gave her life to defeat the Blight, Cousin Alistair was the only one left who had freely forgiven him and didn’t seem to be at all afraid. Even his parents tread carefully around him now. Soon Cousin Alistair, his only friend, would celebrate his coronation and Alistair would see Connor less often; kings needed protection from abominations even more than innocents needed protection.

Being the friendless only child of the most powerful Arl in Ferelden had never seemed as lonely as facing a lifetime locked in a tower, waiting for a demon, Templar, or mage to tear him apart.

After dinner, he went to hide in the library. He scurried past the Ancient Arcane section by the door and darted down a middle isle, where he nearly ran into a dwarf.

“Hi, there!” She gave him a wild smile and grabbed his elbow to keep him from toppling over.

Eyes wide, he stood still, not knowing how to respond.

Maybe she was so nice because she didn’t know who he was.

“You’re Connor Guerrin! I’m so pleased to meet you.”

“Uh . . .”

“I’m Dagna. Isn’t it exciting to study magic?!”

“Uh . . .”

“I’m going to start reading in the Ancient Arcane section tomorrow, but First Enchanter Irving wanted me to compare some of the Lyrium texts to what I know from doing business in Orzammar.”

“You’re from Orzammar?” he blurted out and immediately felt stupid. She was a dwarf. Didn’t most of them come from Orzammar?

“Born and raised there. Of course, after coming here, I’m considered a Surfacer—they’ll strike my name from the memories—and can’t go back except as an agent of the Circle, but isn’t it exciting to study magic?!”

She was still smiling.

“Um, I suppose.

“Wait, ‘struck from the memories?’”

“Yes, in the Shaperate, where all dwarven records are kept. Memories are the records.” She seemed very matter-of-fact about it.

“Your people will pretend you never existed?”

In his tutor’s lessons back home, he’d heard of warring nations destroying art and buildings to crush a culture, but he’d never heard of anyone being _erased and forgotten_ by their own family. His parents may not have journeyed with him here, and as a mage he could never be Arl, but they still called him “son.”

 “It’s worth it, to study here. There’s so much to learn, I can’t wait! Can I help you find something?”

“Um, you know what I did in Redcliffe, don’t you?”

“I know, and came back to yourself again! I’d love to hear how you managed it. What was the Fade like? I can’t even dream. Dwarves can’t, you know.”

“Dagna, people died. Because of me. And . . . it could happen again.”

“That won’t happen.”

“What?”

“You made a desperate choice that turned bad. You learned that lesson and you’ll never forget it, never make that choice again. I can tell by the shadow in your eyes and how you hold your shoulders.”

She gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, flashed him another bright smile.

“Don’t be scared. You are too powerful to be taken by force. You’ve more magic in you than Irving and Wynne put together, even with her new friend tagging along.”

He didn’t know who Wynne’s friend was, but he had a more pressing question.

“I—how do you know that? You’re resistant to magic.”

“I can safely work with lyrium, hear its song. Mage blood carries the same song, and magic is very loud in you.”

_Okay, creepy lady._

“Uh . . .”

Then she plowed on about the books she held in the crook of her left arm, how she had learned so much theory in just a few weeks, how mages and Templars alike were already asking her questions about the arcane and where to find the answers in the library. She helped craft lyrium items and install runes in weapons.

As he was edging back toward the end of the isle, Dagna dropped some names he cared about.

“So, I’m super grateful that Lady Cousland and King Alistair convinced Irving to let me come here to study! Otherwise, I’d still be in the smith caste, writing missives to the Circle with no reply.”

“You met the Hero of Ferelden?”

“Yes! And King Alistair!” She was so giddy and her grip so tight, he thought she might crack the covers off those tomes she was holding.

“My cousin’s not King yet.”

“He will be soon, and he was a Templar—oh, what’s it like to have a Templar in the family?” Her eyes, a lighter blue than his own hazel, shined like ocean-covered pearls in the sun.

“He never took the vows or lyrium, but he has the talents.”

He liked talking about his cousin. It reminded him that someone alive didn’t hate him.

Connor shared a story about how his father had sent him for a week one summer to visit the Chantry where Alistair was in Templar training: Just for fun, Alistair had screamed to see who would come running and both he and Connor had been sent to bed without supper for the joke, even though Alistair was a grown man. She laughed as much as he had.

One story about Alistair turned into twelve. He found himself sitting on the stone floor of the circle library, talking to a chipper dwarf well into the night, his somber mood forgotten.

It seemed she could stay up chatting all night, but when he started yawning in the middle of his own story, she jumped up and offered to show him to his room.

“Thank you. I saw it earlier today, but have no idea how to get there from here.”

At his door, she surprised him with a tight hug, pinning his arms to his sides. She was several years older than he, and he wasn’t yet full grown, but she was still at least a head shorter, her straight red hair tickling his beardless chin. He had the sudden urge to give one of her short pigtails a friendly tug, but she was already racing off, waving to him merrily over her shoulder.

_Maybe I’ll have a friend here after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “be sent to the Circle Tower where he will no longer pose a danger to the innocent.”: Based on http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Connor_Guerrin


	2. A Magister in Redcliffe

Ten years later, he was not happy to return to Redcliffe. It wasn’t the homecoming he had dreamed of when he was a boy sent to the Tower; he was here because King Alistair had granted the rebel mages sanctuary and Uncle Teagan, now Arl of Redcliffe, had agreed to host them. Then a Tevinter Magister popped up, threw Teagan out into the street, and convinced Grand Enchanter Fiona to pledge all the “free” mages into indentured servitude to a nation that ran on slavery and blood magic.

Orlais was embroiled in a bloody civil war to their west; Ferelden was in chaos in the wake of the Conclave Explosion; Tevinter occupied Redcliffe Village. And Connor had no friend to help him deal with his worries.

He missed Dagna. Magister Alexius had kicked her out with the Tranquil and other non-magic members of the dissolved Circle. He hoped she had food and shelter tonight.

Yesterday she’d hugged him goodbye and helped an elderly Tranquil rune crafter mount a donkey. Dagna took the lead rope and cheerfully started a one-sided conversation with the emotionless woman about how they were off on a new adventure. Her bright smile was not reflected in her eyes.

It was the first time Connor had seen his best friend sad, and it terrified him.

Now she was alone with a defenseless Tranquil in the wildest parts of the Hinterlands where rogue Templars and rebel mages were slaughtering every living soul in sight. That worried him more than the loneliness of wandering the village, keeping as far from Gereon Alexius as he could.

He knew better than to cross paths with the Magister. Ferelden mages were taught they could become abominations if they let demons in, but Alexius was a power-hungry monster all by himself. Even from the docks, Connor could sniff the blood magic from the Castle up on the hill. It had a meaner, more edgy scent than what Jowan’s blood had carried ten years ago.

He wished that fool storyteller by the docks would stop reminiscing about how young Connor had unleashed the undead on Redcliffe, but he didn’t dare approach her and draw attention to himself. If Alexius realized Connor had escaped demonic possession as a child, what kind of rituals would he want him to perform as a fully-trained adult? Tevinter couldn’t be trusted, and Alexius felt more menacing than the usual clash over slavery and magic; he was more dangerous than anyone Connor could think of.

For several days, Connor loitered around the docks and town square during the daylight hours, occasionally speaking with the few of his colleagues who had also voted against dissolving the Circles. None were as calm as he and some of them barely kept their panic in check. He did his best to do what Dagna always did: give comfort and hope, though he felt neither himself. He couldn’t be chipper like Dagna, but he could squeeze an elbow or pat a shoulder. He could counsel for patience and encourage peace.

He kept his interactions superficial. When he touched someone, he was cautious not to pass any of his power into them. If any of his fellow mages realized how strong he was with magic, there would be mass panic for sure, or someone would demand he liberate them all. He could level Redcliffe Village with just a flick of his wrist, but Connor never displayed any power beyond that required for duties within the Circle. He was especially glad now that not even Fiona knew his strength. She would insist he use it. Such a desperate act would only bring more death, and more death was not the answer.

In the evenings, he found a chair deep in the shadows in the back of the Gull and Lantern tavern. After sunset, it was teeming with people and easy to remain unnoticed. Each night, he would sneak up to an upper room and lay out on a blanket under the bed, placing wards on all four sides of himself so that whoever took the bed didn’t know they shared a room. He was lucky: due to the tensions of the Magister’s occupation of Redcliffe, the tavern had no overnight visitors and the beds remained empty. He didn’t risk revealing himself to the barkeep to purchase a room himself; someone would surely recognize him and ask why he wasn’t at the castle.

In the darkest parts of the silent nights, with no people to distract him, Connor struggled with his loneliness for Dagna. He had seen her almost every day over the last decade. Since his arrival at the Tower, he had never been permitted to leave, but Dagna was an emissary of sorts and had visited five other Circles over the years. Whenever she traveled, she wrote him every day. Every single day. Each letter was chock-full of all the funny thoughts she had during the day, all the arcane wonders she studied, and the one assurance she voiced every day they saw each other:

“Don’t be scared.”

There were no letters now. He curled up on a thin cotton blanket on the cold stone floor under the bed.

_I’m not scared. I miss you. Be safe._

-

Five days after the Magister’s arrival, Inquisition agents entered Redcliffe Village. The news buzzed through the village like a fire takes to dry straw. No one had been expecting the Inquisition, but Inquisition agents claimed they had an invitation from the Grand Enchanter.

_You’re too late. She’s not in charge any more._

Connor stayed by the waterfront all day and avoided the tavern where the Magister was to meet with the Inquisition agents. He shivered and tried to block out the eerie whispers coming from the locked hut next to the bookseller. Whatever was in there was evil.

Some blond man from another Circle wandered over and blathered on about how mage freedom was essential.

_You’re not free! You’re indentured to a Magister! The worst is yet to come._

“We—” Connor couldn’t articulate an answer because he saw a ghost approaching:

A blonde, green-eyed rogue, her long hair up in a bun, twin blades on her back, walking with the carriage of nobility.

_Lady Cousland? The dead should rest in peace, not walk in Redcliffe._

As she neared and met his stare, he realized she was a stranger, not the dead Hero of Ferelden. The walk was slightly different, the eyes just as deep yet not as familiar, and Lady Cousland hadn’t ever worn green leather armor. This woman's face was a bit longer, the laugh lines in different places. She wore a glove on her right hand, but not her left.

He listened to the song in her blood. Where the Hero had carried the beat of the taint, this one thrummed with the pulse of Fade magic.

She seemed to recognize him and he held his breath, waiting to see what new danger sought him.

“Connor? I’m Margaret Trevelyan of Ostwick, an agent of the Inquisition. Can we talk?”

“Of course, My Lady.”

She was as gentle and compassionate as Lady Cousland had been, but he had no trouble now seeing her as someone else, Lady Trevelyan. Her questions were direct, yet without accusation.

After five days of little sleep and extraordinary worry for Dagna, Connor was edging toward despair and lost his composure. Or perhaps it was the entire weight of the three years of mage-Templar war that finally cracked him. Surely it could not be because the Marcher in front of him looked so much like the Hero of Ferelden.

“We are monsters. We need to be controlled. If it wasn’t for me . . .”

_I’m a monster._

He hadn’t thought so in years—and Dagna forbade him from saying it—but, back in Redcliffe without his best friend, reality was crashing back in.

“You’re not in favor of the alliance with Tevinter?”

“‘Alliance.’ Is that what they’re calling it? That Magister threw my uncle out into the street! He signed us into servitude! This is my home. Redcliffe. Ferelden. No matter what evils I’ve done, I never would have invited Tevinter here.”

“I need to be going.”

“Please, talk some sense into the Grand Enchanter. We have to find a way to make peace.”

He watched her walk away, up the steps toward the tavern. He hoped she didn’t discuss him with the Magister. This war was complicated enough already.

He walked to the end of the stone-paved pier and leaned a shoulder on the wall. He watched the cheerful, bright sun flicker and flash on the water, and waited with dread lodged in his chest.

It wasn’t long before he heard a wild burst of magic further up in the village. He straightened, shoulders tense. Someone had torn a rift in the Fade. He could hear the growing echoes of it, though everyone else around him blithely went about their business of mending nets. Before he could decided what to do about it, the echoes clashed with other powers trying to beat them back.

_Should I go help, or will I just be another enticement for the rift’s demons?_

Then the rift snapped shut and the change of power nearly knocked him over. Trying to look as casual as possible, he made his way up the stone steps from the docks and down the path. As he neared the chantry, he caught the ozone stink of a closed rift.

He ducked behind a column to hide when Lady Trevelyan exited the chantry. She was accompanied by a clean-shaven elf mage, a human woman carrying a Seeker shield, and a nearly-shirtless dwarf holding an impressive crossbow.

“ _Now_ can we go back to Haven?” the Seeker asked.

“Yes, let’s, before this Venatori cult decides we’re better off dead than deceived.”

_Venatori? Cult?_

It sounded like something Alexius would be mixed up in. Connor wondered if Dagna had heard of them and wished he wasn’t cut off from the reference library of the College of Magi.

_There is no more College. Will this war ruin everything good?_

He remained in hiding when Lady Trevelyan and her companions made for Redcliffe Road. As they passed him, he heard that thrum of Fade power again and wondered if she had been the one to close the rift. By now everyone had heard the story of the sole Conclave survivor.

_They say she can close rifts. They say she will close the Breach._

Did this change anything for him? He had been waiting to see if Fiona would pull off some miraculous negotiations to keep the “free” mages peacefully in Ferelden. The last few days had made it abundantly clear that Fiona could not save any of them, not even herself. She was resigned to her fate— _their_ fate. Alistair and Dagna would ream her out if they were here.

Maybe that was his answer: go to Alistair. Soon the Magister would order them to pack up and begin the journey to Tevinter. When he did, Connor could use the tumult of activity to sneak off into the Hinterlands. Traveling alone on foot would take weeks—or even months, if he avoided the war-torn main roads—but Alistair was the only person he trusted other than Dagna. He could pledge himself to the King’s service, just as the Orlesian court had its Arcane Advisor. Working for an ex-Templar would surely keep everyone safer than serving a Magister. He could maybe do some of the good Dagna always said he could do.

For the first time since the mage-Templar war started three years ago, hope kindled in his heart. Yes, he would rest for a few more days and reserve his strength for the journey ahead.

-

Connor didn’t need to make the trip on his own. In fact, he wasn’t going to go to Denerim. Two very important people made sure of that, and the arrangements didn’t make him any happier than getting sent to Redcliffe in the first place.

After another week of Connor’s loitering around Redcliffe Village, Lady Trevelyan showed up again, humming with Fade magic so loud he noticed it before they reached the front gate. When the official delegation of the Inquisition rode into the village, Connor hid in the tavern. It was quiet because everyone else was out gawking at the visitors.

He sat alone, hands clenched in front of him atop a clean wood table as he heard the powers struggling up at Redcliffe Castle. He didn’t have the gift of visions, but he could hear the echoes of a Fade rift ripping open—he panicked for a moment when it seemed Lady Trevelyan’s song disappeared, but then he heard her power lurch forward and the rift noise was gone, leaving only her in his ears.

He sighed and unclenched his fists, but his heart still raced with uncertainty. Who was in charge now? As stealthily as he could in broad daylight, Connor made the trek up the hill to Redcliffe Castle. Even after what he’d heard, he wasn’t prepared for who he found in the courtyard.

Inquisition soldiers had secured Gereon and Felix Alexius in a barred wagon. Next to their horses were mounts bearing the King’s emblem. A flurry of activity drew his attention to the main entry.

Out walked Lady Trevelyan, deep in conversation with the King of Ferelden.

“Alistair,” Connor whispered his name in shock, too quietly for anyone to hear, but the ex-Templar’s gaze shot up and he grinned.

“Connor!”

Alistair squeezed Lady Trevelyan’s elbow and said something to her before rushing down the steps in a very un-king-like fashion. He grabbed him in a hug hard enough to make him grunt. Connor smiled for the first time since Dagna had left twelve days ago.

“It’s good to see you, too, Alistair. Did Teagan . . . ?”

“He’s safe, along with Cou.” Cou was Teagan’s prize Ferelden Forder.

“Think you can stay out of trouble tonight, while I talk with the Inquisition? We can catch up in the morning.”

Alistair’s gaze wandered over to where Lady Trevelyan talked with a Grey Warden whose blood didn’t seem to sing with same taint Alistair carried. Perhaps he had lost the taint, like Fiona, but didn’t that mean he had to leave the order? Maybe not, since Ferelden had so few Wardens.

Alistair squeezed Connor’s elbow, but his attention was totally on Trevelyan, and he had that glassy look he’d always had for Lady Cousland.

“See someone you like, cousin?”

Teasing Alistair was always so easy and entertaining.

“What? I gazed . . . glanced, in that direction, maybe. But I wasn’t staring . . .” Alistair was beet red.

“Good luck with your parley with the Inquisition. I’ll see you in the morning.” Connor slapped him on the shoulder and went to find a real bed for the first time since the Magister’s arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re going to assume that it took Teagan seven days to ride to Denerim and it will take Alistair 5 to ride to Redcliffe, for a total of 12 days between the Magister’s arrival and Alistair’s arrival. Travel time by horseback is loosely based on Teagan’s travel time in chapter one of the King and the Inquisitor, the map at http://raven-jadewolfe.deviantart.com/art/Map-of-Ferelden-with-Distance-Chart-317453015, the assumption that Alistair’s party changes to fresh horses in Lothering, and the assumption that an experienced war horse with no extra gear could handle a few days at a pace of 40 to 60 miles per day (www.terryburns.net/How_fast_could_they_travel.htm). There might be 18 miles between the village and the castle that wasn’t taken into account in the King and the Inquisitor—hey, DA:O gameplay made it seem like less than a mile—so, the timeline here is a little stretched, but trust me: no horses died of exhaustion in this fantasy story.
> 
> Arcanist Dagna tells the Inquisitor that she visited a half-dozen circles, as shown at about 5:40 in https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oyFE8QljXhk
> 
> “We are monsters”: This conversation is almost verbatim from the game, as shown in https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wgpj0pt_GQI
> 
> "I gazed . . . glanced": A line from Alistair’s “cat that ate the pigeon” banter with Wynne in DA:Origins, starting at 7:35 in https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BL1H6WifMh8


	3. Healing the wounded

“I don’t want to go to Haven any more than I wanted to return to Redcliffe,” Connor told Alistair the next morning. “The Veil is torn open. There’ll be abominations.”

“There are already mages and Templars working side by side there. It’s as safe as anywhere else. If you need anything, find Lady Trevelyan – she’ll help you.”

“The two of you discussed me? I don’t want that kind of attention.”

What would something called the _Inquisition_ do if they found him to be a mage more powerful than the Grand Enchanter? He suppressed a shudder and tried to pay attention to what Alistair was saying.

“She’s available day or night, any time you need her. You can trust Margie, I promise.”

Connor crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, grateful for the chance to poke back.

_Your turn to be uncomfortable, cousin._

“Margie?”

“Uh, Lady Trevelyan is an honorable sort.”

“Whatever, Alistair. Seeing as you’ve exiled us mages, I’ll go with Fiona and _Margie_.”

He turned to mount his horse, but Alistair made a panicked grab for his arm.

“Hey, Connor. I love you. Please don’t hate me just because I’m an ass who mucked things up.”

How could he stay irritated with the only other soul who loved him as unconditionally as Dagna?

“It’s okay, man.”

Conner turned back to hug Alistair, push a little magic through his fingers into the ex-Templar to make him jump.

“Ow! You did that on purpose!”

“Always, cousin.” Connor grinned. “Stay out of trouble.”

Alistair gave him a friendly slap on the back and Connor mounted his horse and joined the other mages riding for Haven. He was sure the village wouldn’t feel like a haven for himself, but it was good to be rid of the Magister, good to have seen Alistair again.

As good as those things were, he would have rather known that Dagna was safe.

-

Haven wasn’t bad. Or it wouldn’t have been if the giant green Breach in the sky hadn’t been silently screaming in his head. It was the scariest thing anyone had ever seen, but no one else seemed able to _hear_ it the way he did, and almost everyone went about their daily business without paying it much attention.

He had to learn how to block out something so loud. Connor reviewed in his mind the exercises he’d drilled with Dagna in the Circle library the night before his Harrowing. That brought the noise down to a dull roar, but by the end of the day he was tired from the effort. He went to get a potion for headaches from Adan and almost ran smack into Dorian on his way out the door.

“Well, if it isn’t the King’s cousin!”

Dorian grinned like he’d just said the most witty thing in the world. Connor scowled at him.

“I have a name. Connor Guerrin.”

“Of course, a fine, strong name, for a fine, strong lad.”

“Stop messing with me, Dorian, and just tell me what you want.”

“You look like you’ve got the fate of Thedas on your shoulders, when I am fairly certain that’s Lady Trevelayn’s job.” He kept his glib smile in place. “Trying to lighten the mood. You know us blood mages, always interfering.”

“You’re not a blood mage.”

Dorian cocked his head and gave him an appraising look.

“Not going to rail on me about Tevinter? I’m used to it, you know.”

“I know what it’s like to be hated,” Connor answered, “but in your case it’s not justified.”

Mentally kicking himself for letting himself get dragged in to such a conversation, Connor strode off before the other mage could overcome his shock and respond. Maybe the potion would cure him of stupidity as well as a headache.

The potion helped—it cured his headache, at least—and with each day of practice Connor improved his filters shutting out the noise of the Breach. By the end of the week, he was just as comfortable as everyone else seemed to be with the green doom of the world growing overhead in the sky.

The next day, it seemed the danger would be vanquished: Fiona made the announcement that a half-dozen of the strongest enchanters were ready to march on the Breach with Lady Trevelyan and her party. That morning, Connor and some of his colleagues helped Adan bottle and package some extra potions to send along with them to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, just in case. A few hours later, everyone looked to the sky when a giant boom shook the ground for miles. The Breach was gone.

That night he watched Minaeve and Seggrit dance around the campfire while Adan chugged mead and laughed at his own jokes. Lady Trevelyan and Seeker Pentaghast stood in front of the chantry building, deep in a serious conversation. The Breach was gone, but Trevelyan was still rich with Fade magic and he always could tell where she was in Haven by that flowing sound no one else seemed to be able to hear.

_Dagna would hear it. She wouldn’t sit silently by the campfire. She’d walk right up to them and inject herself into the conversation with all kinds of questions. She’d probably ask for a sample, too._

He smiled and shook his head, remembering the day the Breach had first appeared over Thedas.

“It’s so pretty! In a destroy-the-world kind of way,” Dagna had gushed. Everyone else in the room had looked at her appalled, but he had laughed and followed her out onto the balcony for a closer look at this new anomaly in the sky.

Lost in memories of Dagna, he slowly became aware of a growing echo off the mountains. He looked around, but no one else seemed to notice it. It was a song like lyrium, only harsher, like a more savage version of the taint Grey Wardens carried. It was a dissonant screaming, demanding destruction, devouring all the other sounds around it. Whatever it was, it was descending on Haven fast. He had to tell someone.

He jumped up, looking for Cullen or Fiona. Maybe they knew what this new danger was. Before he took a step, the watch clanged the alarm bells and Cullen called everyone to arms. Every soldier and free mage in Haven ran for the gate, where they found an odd rogue with shaggy hair and a wide-brimmed hat.

“I’m Cole, I came to help!”

The newcomer pointed behind him where thousands of Templars poured down the mountain, all glowing red and roaring like animals, carrying the torches of war.

The night became a blur of blood and screams. Connor helped Fiona escort the children and novices into the chantry proper. Then injured refugees and soldiers poured in needing wounds bound. They quickly ran out of potions and started handing out raw elf root for those in the worst pain to chew on. One bleeding scout fell dead as she walked in the door; all they could do is pull her body to the side to make room for those behind her. Even with the doors closed, they could hear the screams, fires, and clash of iron and steel outside.

Then the mountain shook.

“Trebuchet,” Fiona whispered to Connor as she helped him bind a soldier’s side. “Started a landslide.”

He pursed his lips and nodded, then moved on to the next patient.

The mountain shook again, this time with the roar of something really big.

“Dragon,” Fiona’s eyes were wide with new fear. “What do we do?”

_You’re asking me? You’re the Grand Enchanter._

She also had been a Grey Warden before inexplicably losing the taint. Wardens were supposed to be brave protectors, but Fiona was cowering as much as the children.

“Help the person in front of you,” Connor spoke more sternly than he had intended to and turned to assist a refugee with a sprained ankle. He wrapped the ankle tightly and pushed some of his power directly into the other man to expedite healing.

Commander Cullen threw the chantry doors open and the last of the surviving troops ran inside with Lady Trevelyan bringing up the rear. Face flushed red, Chancellor Roderick leaned on Cole, urging everyone inside, “The Chantry is your shelter!”

“He tried to stop a Templar,” Cole said. “The blade went deep. He’s going to die.”

“What a charming boy,” Roderick choked out. Connor and Cole helped him slide down into a chair. He’d lost too much blood and his mangled insides were visible through his wound; there was nothing they could do.

Lady Trevelyan and Commander Cullen examined their options. She called for escape ideas, but he grimly said that they were all dead and might as well take as many enemies down with them as they could. With some help from Cole, Roderick stuttered out a theoretically survivable option: sneak out the back of the chantry and up the pilgrimage path.

Playing the bait, Lady Trevelyan burst back out the front door, Lady Pentaghast, Varric, and Solas quick on her heels. No one expected to see them again.

_How will I tell Alistair she’s gone?_

Connor shook himself and helped ease Roderick down on a litter so two scouts could carry him out and secure him to a sled. Then he took the hands of two terrified mages who were about ten, the age he had been when he went to the Tower. Twin brother and sister, they had matching freckles, blue eyes, and they each had a round dimple in the center of their chin. He gave their hands a reassuring squeeze and led them out into the snow.


	4. Reunion

When they had made it past the tree line and an archer launched the signal for Lady Trevelyan to start the landslide, Connor kept marching forward with the children, not wanting them to endure the sight of the decimation of Haven. The ground shook, snow fell off the trees, small rocks cascaded past their feet, but he kept his eyes forward.

It took a few hours to trudge up the pilgrimage path to a clearing beyond a brown-walled canyon. Just as they got tents set up, a blizzard hit. Connor sat in the healers’ tent. The twins refused to leave his side. He helped Adan craft more potions. He got up to help Mother Giselle comfort those who cried out in their sleep.

It was the longest night of his life, even longer than those lonely times spent under a bed in Redcliffe.

A few hours before dawn, the howling winds stopped and he heard scouts and guards moving around outside, quietly discussing routes and rotations with the Seeker, Commander, and Spymaster. Then a shout raised the whole camp.

“She’s here! The Herald has returned to us!”

-

Within a day, they were on the march again. The sun smiled down and the glare off the snow made Connor squint. He walked with the alchemist’s cart, surrounded by various novices and children, who were brave enough to run ahead and back again to tease the adults about the slow pace. The adults were a bit more solemn and reflective during the day, but it was the kids who awoke each night, screaming about a red-eyed monster. Connor and Mother Giselle calmed them back to sleep, but Fiona shook so much from the strain that Mother Giselle gently led her to a bedroll by other senior enchanters.

Several days later they crested a snow-covered ridge to see a magnificent fortress built into the side of a mountain. _Skyhold_ , Solas called it, and it would be their home for the indefinite future while the Inquisition tried to figure out how to stop Corypheus from tearing the world apart. Lady Trevelyan was named Inquisitor and repairs on the keep began in earnest.

Within a few weeks of their arrival at Skyhold, a rumor went around that the Champion of Kirkwall had met in secret with the Inquisitor. A few days later, whispers of troubles with the Grey Wardens circulated through the tavern and refugee camp, but most of it was fanciful wondering and nothing official was announced.

Connor focused on helping wherever an extra set of hands was needed. He worked with Adan in the undercroft to rebuild their supplies of potions and elixirs. He helped clear rubble from the front gate and the stables. He took a shift each night tending to the wounded and sick, fetching them water, administering their healing herbs, and sometimes just holding hands; he often saw Cole there whispering to patients, but the rogue never spoke to him.

His favorite task was the hour he spent each day helping the mage children find books in the grand rotunda; it reminded him of Dagna, and how she always found something “ _just right_ ” for every reader in the Circle Tower.

One afternoon while he browsed the reference section by himself, Dorian kindly pointed him in the direction of the little dusty library down below the kitchens. Dorian’s professional manner toward him was a surprise. Whenever Connor sat to read in the rotunda, Dorian seemed to be swiping at Solas. Dorian also flirted with the Inquisitor, though his appreciative gaze seemed to mostly follow the forms of Commander Cullen and Recruit Sutherland. There were vicious rumors he sought to seduce the Inquisitor into following the ways of Tevinter, but Lady Trevelyan put a stop to those with one quick conversation with Mother Giselle.

“I meant no offense, Your Worship.”

Connor hid his face behind a book and tried not to snicker. Lady Trevelyan was just as effective as Alistair when it came to bluntness.

After Mother Giselle left, Connor went down to the lower library and dusted off a tome he remembered from his first year at the Circle. It was a nice copy, too. The scribe had done well. It would be perfect for the twins after their practical lesson with Fiona this afternoon.

He ran back up to thank Dorian, and stopped short when the Tevinter mage looked up from his armchair with a smile more wicked than usual.

“What is it?” Connor asked.

Dorian raised an eyebrow and tilted his head sideways to look behind him. Connor turned around and froze with his mouth open.

“Well, don’t just stand there slack-jawed, let’s figure out what you need!”

“Dagna!” He strode over, picked her up under her arms and swung her in a wide circle, making her squeal. He set her down and gave her a smothering hug.

“You two know each other?” Dorian quipped, but Connor ignored him.

“What are you doing here?! How did you get out of the Hinterlands? What about the Tranquil you were helping?”

“Shhh!” Solas hissed from down below.

Connor stuck his tongue out in his direction. Solas couldn’t see him, but Dorian and Dagna both thought it hilarious, and laughing quietly was not a talent either of them possessed.

Solas hissed again and then ignored them.

“She’s fine, helping the creatures researcher here in the library. As for the Hinterlands, Sister Nightingale’s people found us and snuck us out. And . . .” She grinned ear-to-ear.

“I’m _Arcanist_ Dagna now!”

She grabbed his hand and led him toward the stairs.

“Come on, I’ll show you all my new tools!”

She had quite the set up in the undercroft. She showed him how each instrument worked, told him about all the enchanting the Inquisitor needed done this week, and chattered on about the _amazing_ Fade-touched animals she’d encountered in the Hinterlands. She showed him some Templar and mage tools she’d salvaged while on her adventure and explained in extreme detail how she was going to get each item to reveal its secrets.

Connor grinned like a fool the entire time, not tiring at all. Back in the Tower, he had sometimes said, “Just summarize it for me, Dagna,” but he didn’t think he’d ever again tell her to cut her descriptions short. Seeing her again, hearing her voice again was the greatest miracle of his life.

“Oh!” She interrupted herself. “It’s dinner time already! Let’s head over to the tavern.”

“Sure.”

As he held the door for her and followed her out into the main hall, he heard Harritt the smith mutter, “Cheery as sugared flowers, she is.”

_She is. And I wouldn’t want her to be any other way._

At the tavern, there were plenty of people willing to share their tables, but Connor and Dagna settled in at a table for two on the second level. They had weeks of talking to catch up on. Half-way into their second pint, Sera walked by with a ball of string.

“What’s that for?” Dagna asked in her usually sunshiny way.

“Like to join a spot of fun, I’ll tell ya the prank.” Sera smirked.

“Oh, I—”

“Maybe next time,” Connor said. He definitely did not want Dagna to get them roped into whatever Sera was planning for this evening.

The elf gave them a saucy wink and went downstairs. They were still talking several hours later when Sera returned to her room alone, laughing to herself in that nasal staccato way of hers.

When the barkeep started putting chairs up on tables, they took the hint and headed out into the moonlight. Dagna wrapped her arms around his waist in a hug as familiar to him as his own skin and magic.

“Sleep well,” she said. “Don’t be scared.”

It was what she had told him every day since the day they met.

“I’ve never been scared since I found you.”

It was half true. He’d been scared for her when the Magister banished her from Redcliffe, but he had found her again and there was no need to talk about that.

He had his best friend back, and, whatever was happening with the rest of the world, they would face it together.


	5. Wardens, royalty, and a friendly spirit

The next few weeks passed in a blur. He saw Dagna every day, even got to work in the same room with her a lot because the main potions table was down in the undercroft. She often showed up in the library when he was helping the younger mages find books. The twins took to her immediately and insisted she teach them how to hear lyrium’s song.

“You just have to open your minds, little ones,” she said.

Connor hid his smile behind his hand. She was a head shorter than both human children.

“If your minds are open, the song will flow through you!”

Dagna and Conner each had their daily duties and special projects. They always shared breakfast and dinner. Unless someone else approached him, or Adan or Fiona had special instructions for the day, Connor didn’t think much about the rest of the workings of Skyhold—or about the war that waged beyond the fortress walls.

Then the news came that the Grey Wardens were planning a blood magic ritual to raise a demon army in an attempt to pre-empt the next Blight.

“ _What?!_ ” Connor practically shouted in Fiona’s face when she shared the message with Connor and the other adult mages. She flinched—she’d been doing that a lot lately—and whispered her response.

“They’re desperate. Wardens must do anything it takes to end the blights. And—” she hesitated. “And Warden Stroud says they’re all hearing The Calling at once. As a darkspawn creature, Corypheus has a connection to the taint in all Wardens; he’s devised a false Calling.”

After he’d been conscripted, The Calling was the first thing Alistair had explained to Connor, even though Connor’s mother thought he was too young for such a serious conversation. Twenty or thirty years after a Warden survived the Joining that made them able to hear all darkspawn and land the killing blow on an archdemon, the Warden would suffer increasingly hideous dreams and hear whispers inside their own head. These were signs that the taint was finally killing them. The Warden says their goodbyes and then heads to the Deep Roads to fight darkspawn and die a hero’s death. Dagna knew of several Wardens who had passed through Orzammar Commons on their way to join the darkspawn-hunting dwarves known as The Legion of the Dead.

_They_ all _think they’re dying? Is Alistair planning a Long Walk into the Deep Roads?_

A fresh wave of fear coursed through him. Without another word to the Grand Enchanter, he rushed off to find the Spymaster already writing a note of warning to Alistair.

_It’s fake. Don’t listen to the Calling. Details following by courier._

She immediately sent the note off by Denerim homing pigeon and assured him that Alistair would be fine. He didn’t feel assured.

He ran down to the undercroft to find Dagna, in case she hadn’t heard the news—or didn’t know exactly why the Inquisition was mobilizing against the Grey Wardens. She would understand better than anyone. For once, she was alone in the undercroft without Adan, Harritt, or any visitors.

He blubbered out the news, surprised that his voice wavered so much. His mind sped along with sharp clarity to the most likely and tragic outcomes possible.

Dagna didn’t speak. She just sat herself down on the little stone step next to her workbench and patted the space next to her, inviting him to sit by her. She wrapped her arms around him and he rested his cheek atop her hair. She rocked him back and forth until well past the dinner hour, then led him up to his room.

She gave him a parting hug, but didn’t give him her usual bedtime advice.

Instead she said, _“It’s okay to be scared sometimes.”_

Somehow, permission to be scared for Alistair helped him to be less scared for Alistair and he was able to fall asleep.

-

The days following Adamant were subdued. Stroud was dead, Hawke off to Weisshaupt. Not everyone approved of the Inquisitor’s decision to ally with the surviving Wardens, but Connor and Dagna understood it was more dangerous to banish them beyond sight and reach.

Shortly after her solemn return from the Western Approach, the Inquisitor was off to the Hinterlands. Connor and Dagna were on their way to the healers’ tents and paused to watch the Inquisitor’s party ready their mounts. Lady Trevelyan was leading the party on some unspecified mission that made her giddy and seemed to confuse the Seeker. Dorian and Varric shrugged and followed the ladies out the front gate.

“What was that all about?” Connor asked.

Dagna shrugged and they continued on to the healers to deliver a fresh batch of potions.

The next time he saw the Inquisitor, Connor realized what—who—had drawn Lady Trevelyan into the Hinterlands.

He was taking a shortcut to the library when he saw her alone in the hallway, examining paintings of King Alistair; Alistair’s brother, King Cailan; Alistair’s father, King Maric; and Alistair’s grandmother, Moira, the Rebel Queen who had inspired the rebellion against the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden.

She stood in front of Alistair’s portrait a very long time.

“If I didn’t already love him, this would do it,” she murmured.

The artist had captured Alistair’s humor and sadness in equal measure, meticulously detailing the gold flecks in grey eyes that stared steadily out from the canvas. The image was a close up showing his shoulders and head. He wore gold royal armor with no helm. All the colors were muted, the lines not quite sharp, though his profile was perfectly clear.

There was a little detail, easily missed against the gold backdrop of his armor: A tiny gold locket on a gold chain. It was an emblem of Andraste's Flame, riddled with cracks where someone had glued it back together.

“That’s my favorite, too.”

She startled and turned to face him. When she gave him an encouraging smile, he moved to stand by her.

“The woman who painted it died at the conclave.”

“I’m sorry, Connor. Was she a friend of yours?”

“Not precisely. We were colleagues, though she was better with a paintbrush than a staff. Her magic was a great capacity to love, which flowed into her art. She couldn’t really cast spells, not even light a fire or heal a small cut. I think she passed her harrowing because she _wasn’t_ strong enough to entice a demon.

“I don’t think the Circle was necessary for her.”

Surprised by his own observation, he thought about it. No, Sarah hadn’t needed the Circle, but she had loved it with all her soul and devoted her life to serving the Chantry as a Circle Mage in the service of others. She proved that magic need not be monstrous.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t think there’s anything more to say.”

Lady Trevelyan reached toward the portrait, but caught herself before touching it.

“This locket . . .”

“It was his mother’s. Lady Cousland found it in my father’s study, gifted it to Alistair while they journeyed together.”

“He was wearing it in Redcliffe, but not in Lothering,” she murmured more to herself than to him.

He blinked in surprise and turned to watch her watch the painting.

_That’s what she was doing in the Hinterlands, meeting Alistair in Lothering?_

“He hasn’t taken it off since the Blight . . .”

Connor fell silent, realizing what it meant: Alistair had worn the locket for Lady Cousland, not his mother, and now he didn’t.

Lady Trevelyan gave him a sad smile.

_She understands, too._

He didn’t know what to say.

“A woman doesn’t want to be a man’s second choice, but it’s best to tell her yourself if you’ve ever loved someone else first,” Dagna had whispered to him once when he was thirteen. “She might accept it then, but you’ll be in trouble if she hears it later.” The dining hall was in an uproar over two enchanters who put on a very emotional display and were transferred to separate Circles the following morning.

“I—”

“It’s okay, Connor.”

Lady Trevelyan raised her hand like she was going to pat him on the shoulder and he stiffened. She thrummed with the pulse of Fade magic and he was not sure how his magic would react if her Fade-touched skin came in contact with his power.

She shrugged and let her hand fall limply to her side without touching him. He hoped she wasn’t offended and just thought he just preferred his personal space.

“We’ll work out everything in the end,” she said. “I promise.”

-

The next day, the Inquisitor and her entourage left for the Winter Palace to meet Empress Celene. They returned two weeks later with the news that the Orlesian civil war was over, Celene retained her throne, the Grande Duchess was dead by the Inquisitor’s hand, and the Grand Duke was to be executed for treason.

Connor was in shock: the Orlesian’s civil war had started after the mage-Templar War, but it had been going on for more than two years, and the Inquisitor had brought it to a close over the course of a single evening at Court.

Then there was the announcement of Celene’s new Liaison to the Inquisition: Lady Morrigan. She was Celene’s own Advisor on all things arcane, and she was a veteran of the Fifth Blight. Most importantly—to Connor—Lady Morrigan had defeated the desire demon that had possessed him ten years ago.

_I have to see her._

Connor heard the echoes of magic all over Skyhold. He was fairly adept at filtering out the crystal-clear singing of the lyrium stores delivered by the dwarves. He was used to the mixed murmur of magic made by his fellow Circle mages. Solas was a bit of an enigma: his practical spells showed extremely powerful results, but his blood sang very softly. Connor wondered if there was a way to mute or shield evidence of in-born magic; he didn’t dare ask Solas.

The three powers that sang loudest were his own marching magic, the thrum of the Inquisitor’s Fade connection, and a new tune that blended like a dark crow mixed with a morning songbird. He followed the sound to find Lady Morrigan in the garden.

“Good afternoon, Lady Morrigan.”

“Ah, the Guerrin lad.”

“Yes, thank you for your part in saving my father and me.”

She gave that impatient huff he remembered from when they first met and it made him smile. He was no longer a fear-filled boy and he could see a softness in her gold eyes that had not been there during the Blight.

“ _A young man full of power. Would my boy—”_

“Begone, demon!” Morrigan flicked her hand out much like she would telling a dog to shoo.

Cole appeared at Connor’s side, holding a bowl of sliced plums.

“That’s not a demon. It’s Cole.”

She turned her haughty glare on Connor.

“ _Gold eyes find me in the Fade—”_

“Cole,” Connor said tersely, “We can talk about this later.”

Lady Morrigan’s lips twitched in amusement.

“I want to help.”

“I know. We’ll talk about it later. I’ll meet you at the tavern.”

“I want to help.” Cole disappeared.

“Surely someone with your experience would be wary of spirits so eager to help,” she said, neither smiling nor glaring now.

“I won’t let anyone possess me again. The price is always too high.

“Truly, My Lady, I won’t risk it. Would you?”

Her only answer was a raised eyebrow.

“Good day, Lady Morrigan.”

Connor headed for the tavern, wondering if he should ask Dagna to explain to Cole why it’s not appropriate to blurt out certain things in front of women.


	6. Dreadful deeds and an envoy to Denerim

Lady Trevelyan had been reunited with the Inquisition after the blizzard; Dagna had been reunited with him at Skyhold; he had finally had the chance to thank Lady Morrigan, adult-to-adult, instead of as a child. All these reunions reminded him of one more person he desperately wanted to see again soon. The brief moments he had caught with Alistair in Redcliffe hadn’t been enough; Connor wanted a real visit. He hoped the Ambassador might make that possible.

When he entered her office, Lady Josephine Montilyet looked up gave him her loveliest Antivan smile.

“Connor! What a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?”

He suddenly remembered she was one of the principal driving forces behind the Inquisition—yeah, he was planning on asking her to get him an audience with the _King_ of Ferelden—and tried not to shuffle his feet like some dumb novice asking for a blood magic book from the restricted section of the library.

“Good morning, My Lady. I know you often need emissaries and I would be honored to volunteer if you needed someone sent to Denerim. I am familiar with King Alistair and I would be happy to facilitate formal introductions between Inquisition representatives and the King.”

Her smile turned into a teasing grin. “You’d like to visit your cousin?”

He shrugged sheepishly and nodded.

Twirling a quill between her fingers, she tilted her head to stare at an empty space over his shoulder while she thought.

He stole a peek at the parchment on her desk: It was a draft of a missive with lots of words crossed out and re-written; in the margins she’d drawn little hearts with the name _Blackwall_ inside them. He pursed his lips and tried not to snort, hoping she hadn’t caught him peeking.

Her gaze returned to his face and she beamed.

“It’s not official yet, but the Inquisition has been planning a parley with the Ferelden court. If you would please be discreet about it until the arrangements are complete, I will certainly make sure you are part of the delegation. After all, you are a valued member of the King’s family, as well as a valued agent of the Inquisition.”

Judging from the sparkle in her eye, she’d made the whole thing up on the spot—and he was in such awe of her influence, he almost couldn’t catch his breath to answer appropriately.

“ _Thank you_ , Lady Montilyet! It is an honor to work with such a skilled diplomat.”

She laughed and shooed him out of her office.

Focused more on his internal whirlwind of excitement than on where he was going, Connor almost ran smack into a worried messenger who raced for Josephine’s office. Then he wandered out into the sun to see if anyone at the healers’ tents needed him to fetch some supplies before he met Dagna for lunch.

In the courtyard, there was an excited buzz of various close-knit groups deep in whispers.

“Warden Blackwall is _missing_ ,” he heard the lead healer hiss. “And the Inquisitor was pretty firm with the agent who brought the news . . .”

The healer trailed off when she noticed Connor approaching and he didn’t get to hear any more of the rumor, but when he turned to leave he saw Lady Trevelyan storming away from the stables with a field report in her hand and a wide-eyed messenger scurrying after her.

“Fetch me the Nightingale and Commander Cullen,” she ordered the man following her. “Tell them to meet me in the Ambassador’s office immediately.”

“Straight away, Your Worship!”

Connor had the sinking feeling that a delegation to Denerim was not going to be a priority.

_What’s the matter with me, morose because I can’t see Alistair right this second? There are bigger, world-threatening problems right now._

He shook himself from his thoughts and went to find Dagna.

After lunch, she returned to the undercroft and he picked up a shift in front of the healers’ tents. As he helped a concussed patient sit up to sip a potion, a flurry of activity broke out around the stables.

The Inquisitor, The Iron Bull, Varric, and Lady Pentaghast spurred their mounts through the front gate with a company of soldiers quick on their heels. Lady Montilyet was there to see them off, hands clasped together with worry. She watched until they were over the horizon, then shook her head and started back for the keep, eyes focused on the ground in front of her feet.

As she passed the healers, Connor gently called out her name and she looked up, her eyes full of unshed tears.

“What is it?”

“Warden Blackwall has gone to Val Royeaux to witness an execution. He did not have the Inquisitor’s permission to leave his post . . . He—He went alone, without help . . .”

Connor reached out and squeezed her elbow. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

Josephine nodded her thanks and slowly made her way onward, shoulders slumped. Seeing her so dejected made an angry bile rise in his throat.

_Fucking bastard._

He was irritated with himself, too. The Grey Warden hadn’t felt like a Grey Warden, but Connor had assumed he’d lost the taint, like Fiona. He should have asked Alistair about it at Redcliffe; Duncan and Blackwall had been friends, so maybe Duncan had shared some Blackwall insights with Alistair.

_Blighted hell, is he just a dangerous liar incapable of killing an archdemon, or is he an agent of the enemy?_

If Corypheus had convinced the Empress’ cousin to help him, had he also recruited the man calling himself Blackwall? Connor would not burden Josephine with such thoughts, but he would voice his concerns to the Inquisitor as soon as she returned.

The conversation never happened. Connor was in the undercroft with Dagna, Harritt, and Adan when the Inquisitor returned. A few hours later, Inquisition soldiers returned with Blackwall in irons. The news flashed across all of Skyhold in less than five minutes; one of the healers by the front gate saw them come in and ran down to the undercroft to tell the tale. They all rushed upstairs to find the Inquisitor grimly sitting on her throne and the main hall packed with onlookers.

Head bowed, wrists shackled, the prisoner was escorted in by two guards who bowed to the Inquisitor with their fists over their hearts. Despite being packed to capacity, the room was nearly silent, without a rustle of clothing or murmur from the crowd. No one had dreamed that the Inquisitor would need to render judgment on one of their own.

Voice steady, but devoid of her usual spark, the Ambassador identified the prisoner as Thom Rainier and Dagna gasped, covering her mouth with her hands.

“Do I know the name?” Connor hissed. Dagna nodded

“He ordered the slaughter of a noble’s family for Gaspard de Chalons before the war started,” she whispered back.

Connor shuddered at the memory. Even Dagna had been subdued at the dinner table the evening they received the news.

Maybe three or four years ago, a group of merchants visiting the Ferelden Circle Tower had brought the story of the fugitive Orlesian Captain who had led his men to assassinate Lord Vincent Callier and his family—and guards and servants. It was a bloodbath. When the irate Empress investigated what had happened to her ally, her already-traitorous cousin Gaspard disavowed all knowledge, and the noble who had passed the orders from Gaspard to Rainier committed suicide.

_And how many of Celene’s unknowing troops were executed for following his orders?_

He bet Lady Trevelyan had taken an accounting of exactly how many lives had already been ended, and was weighing them against how many lives needed protection now. She shook with anger while she rendered judgment.

The Inquisitor freed Rainier with the warning that his vow to the Inquisition was not yet fulfilled and the stipulation that he would serve under his true name.

“Report to your post, Thom Rainier.”

He was unshackled and shuffled out of the hall alone, every silent eye watching him go. Once he was out of earshot and down the steps, everyone in the hall started talking at once and streaming out toward the tavern to drink and gossip themselves into a stupor. Harritt and Adan went with them.

Connor turned to his best friend. She was unusually quiet, her blue eyes haunted instead of sparkling.

“I, uh, don’t really feel like a drink,” he said.

“How about the rotunda library?” She offered.

“Excellent idea.”

Always quick to recover her cheer, Dagna excitedly chatted with the Tranquil researcher about the properties of Fade-Touched Bronto Hide, leaving Connor to browse the new arrivals shelf between a gleeful Dorian and a scowling Solas. Dorian was gushing about the regenerative properties of green tea.

_Seriously?_

Connor shot him a look and Dorian winked, poking a finger in Solas’ direction.

“So, my elven friend,” he told the back of Solas’ bald head, “When you refuse to drink _the stuff_ , as you call it, you doom yourself to die of premature old age, whereas I will retain my youthful looks until I die a grand death befitting my magnificent visage.”

Connor choked back a laugh. Solas scoffed and reached for another tome.

The sound of someone’s boots rushing up the stone stairs reverberated through the open rotunda and the Inquisitor burst forth, grinning like a child who had just discovered sweets for the first time. She’d been distraught only five minutes ago. He’d thought only Dagna could turn a mood around that fast.

“Hey, Connor, how would you like to visit Alistair?”

Ah, the Ambassador had pulled it off after all.

 “I would be honored, Inquisitor, to accompany a delegation to Denerim.”

-

Within a fortnight, all the arrangements had been made and Dagna was bidding him farewell at the gate with a fierce hug.

“Oh, isn’t this exciting! It’s your turn to be an emissary! Bring me notes on all the creatures you encounter on the journey—and any Warden-Templar secrets the King lets slip because you’re family!”

He promised.

Their party was large and noisy enough that no wildlife harried them—no dragon, rabid fennec, or Fade-Touched wyvern in sight. Each day, they rose at a sensible hour after sunrise, rode a steady pace with plenty of breaks to rest their mounts, and stopped early enough to pitch tents before nightfall. Connor wouldn’t have minded riding faster or longer each day, but he was careful to show only the patience and decorum expected of a representative on his way to visit the royal court.

_If Alistair was here, he’d stir things up. He doesn’t give a hoot about decorum._

When they made their final camp a half-day’s ride from Denerim, Connor was practically dancing in his saddle with excitement and impatience. His horse snorted and glared at him.

“Sorry.” He patted the beast’s neck.

Shortly after he’d seen his horse settled, he gratefully accepted a mug of stew and sat down next to Josephine and some lesser nobles in front of one of the campfires.

A soft nicker of a horse just beyond the firelight caught his attention. In front of the setting sun, he saw the silhouettes of the Spymaster and Inquisitor, heads bent together in whispered conversation. Leliana gave Lady Trevelyan a little push toward her horse, Mako, and the Inquisitor mounted and sped off alone in the direction of Denerim.

_Looks like I’m not the only one eager to get there._

He smiled into his mug and promised himself that tomorrow would come soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " . . . like some dumb novice asking for a blood magic book from the restricted section": Yes, that is an homage to J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter.
> 
> “ . . . her horse, Mako”: Yes, I named my first Inquisition hose after Mass Effect’s Mako, even though she doesn’t climb like one.


	7. A gift from the King

It was nearly mid-day when they arrived in Denerim and rode into the fortress courtyard to the welcoming sound of trumpets. Stable hands and footmen came forward to tend to their mounts and baggage. As family to the King, Connor went up the steps first with Ambassador Josephine and Seneschal Leliana, while the rest of the envoy waited in the courtyard.

This was definitely more fun than his visit to Redcliffe.

The King and the Inquisitor met them at the top of the steps. His face was bit pink and her blonde hair was down instead of in its usual bun. Alistair hadn’t shaved yet.

“Welcome, agents of the Inquisition!” Alistair was projecting in that overzealous way he had whenever he wanted to distract someone from an embarrassing personal detail.

Connor raised an eyebrow and Alistair shot him a be-quiet look.

“Thank you for your most gracious hospitality, Your Majesty,” Josephine curtsied. Leliana and Connor bowed and everyone in the courtyard bowed, too.

“Connor.” Alistair enveloped him in a big bear hug.

“What is it?” Connor whispered.

“Just got up,” he hissed. “Don’t mention it.”

Connor chuckled, but refrained from shooting some teasing magic into his cousin. Alistair was flustered enough and Connor wanted to be a good emissary while everybody was watching.

The King welcomed everyone inside and servants led the guests to their quarters. Lady Trevelyan showed Josephine and Leliana to the ladies’ parlor in the royal wing. Connor joined Alistair in the King’s parlor.

Alistair sighed and collapsed in a chair like he’d just run to Lothering and back on foot.

“Tired already, cousin? I thought you’d just gotten up.”

“I hate being a royal host almost as much as being a royal guest. I’d rather take on a dragon with sword and shield. Thank the Maker Lady Montilyet wrote the etiquette instructions and seating charts for tonight. Hill greatly approved of her choices and said I didn’t have to do anything else.”

Hill was Alistair’s Steward and the only person Alistair let boss him around. Alistair may have grown up not wanting to be King—everyone in the Chantry had told him he was a worthless bastard and embarrassment—but after he’d claimed his birthright at the landsmeet and himself executed the traitor Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, he had always been firm with his authority.

“I’m trying to be on my best behavior, too—at least when there are witnesses.” Connor turned a palm upward to hold a little fireball in mid-air, his cousin’s favorite trick. It was a fun tickle of warmth over his hand.

Alistair threw his head back and laughed.

“You’re always well behaved. Why they haven’t made you Grand Enchanter yet, I have no idea.”

“Don’t you have to be old? I’m only twenty.”

That made Alistair laugh harder and hiccup, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks.

“Yes, yes, as gravely and grey as Irving was.”

“Fiona’s not that old.”

He sobered at that. “No, and I don’t know how much the taint shortened her lifespan before she lost it. Does—did she . . . ”

“She doesn’t know how, or what lasting effects there may be. Dagna and I haven’t found anything either. If not for Fiona’s story, we’d have thought the taint irreversible.

“Are you having the dreams?” He had to ask. He’d known for years that he would eventually lose Alistair to the taint, but it hadn’t seemed real until this Corypheus mind-mess happened.

“Yes,” he almost whispered it. “Always the same, in the Deep Roads, watching Duncan torn apart, then dying myself.”

“And the whispers?”

“I’ve been hearing them a while.” Alistair’s voice was steady and he looked him straight in the eye. “I was coping, and it’s easier now with the letters from Leliana’s pigeons and couriers. If the voices weren’t winning me over before Corypheus, they certainly won’t now I know the truth.

“And,” he gave a sad smile, “I have another reason to fight harder now: A chance with Margie.”

Connor had never been so grateful for Inquisitor Trevelyan as he had at that moment. Saving the world was good, but only she could save Alistair.

“Enough doom and gloom! Tell me all about Skyhold and what Dagna’s working on.”

They talked for hours. Mid-afternoon, Hill brought them some wine with cheese and crackers and then left again. Then it was time to dress for the banquet.

“I have something for you,” Alistair said. He led the way to his dressing chamber, opened one of the wardrobes, and stepped back for Connor to see his gift.

It was a set of creamy white Enchanter Robes heavily embroidered in intricate patterns with the royal gold thread usually reserved for the King. Brown, orange, and gold flames were stitched along the bottom hem to symbolize earth and fire. Little symbols of ice and water were embroidered in shimmering hues of blue and pearl along the shoulder line. One tip of the collar showed a purple lightning bolt, the other a green shield of a guardian spirit. The finely woven cloth and complex threads hummed with magic, like an entire choir joined in quiet harmony.

Connor ran a hand down the long sleeves, pausing at the weighted cuffs: Fire and lightning runes had been stitched inside one cuff, ice and spirit in the other. The power flowed back and forth across his fingertips, like an ocean that always sooths the shore, in perfect sync with the in-born magic song in his own blood.

“Oh, Alistair, it’s exquisite.”

He’d thought Alistair had been joking about becoming Grand Enchanter, but these robes would tell all of Thedas how great and powerful Ferelden’s King thought his cousin to be. This type of craftsmanship took months. He must have commissioned it before the Conclave.

“I’m glad you like it. Dagna sent me the runes, said something about how they sing in perfect harmony. Sounds kind of scary to me, but she insisted that you’d like it.”

“I do. I will wear this to your banquet.”

Alistair’s eyes were shining with pride and Connor knew he was making the right choice. There could be no more pretending that his talents were average. As a grown man years beyond his Harrowing, as a free mage in the middle of a holy war, as an emissary of the Inquisition, as Alistair’s family, as a soul who finally understood and didn’t fear himself, Connor could not hide the essence of himself from the world any longer.

-

The Inquisitor sat to the King’s right, Connor to his left. The food was fantastic. Skyhold’s fare was decent, serviceable, but all the fancy stuff usually went to visiting dignitaries while agents of the Inquisition, even the nobles, ate the plainer food. Tonight in Denerim there was no end to the fresh Ferelden fruits and meats, glorious unique desserts, and fine wines. Conversation was lively and everyone seemed genuinely pleased to be there, even Alistair and Connor, who usually hated formal affairs.

Before the last dessert course, Alistair rose in his place at the head of the first table to speak. The entire dining hall fell silent.

“My friends, we are honored tonight to host the Inquisition. I raise a toast to the Inquisitor, sent to us by the Maker and His Bride.

“Lady Margaret Trevelyan of Ostwick, the Herald of Andraste, closed the Breach to save us all. To the Inquisitor, savior of Thedas, beloved friend of Ferelden.”

“To the Inquisitor!” Everyone raised their glasses and drank, immediately falling back into excited chatter.

After dinner, Alistair offered the Inquisitor his arm and they led everyone to the adjoining parlor.

There were little armchairs and tables set up for card games in front of the fireplaces. Connor would have liked a round of Wicked Grace—an inappropriate game, but Alistair wouldn’t care—with the Ambassador and some of the lesser nobles he knew from games in the Skyhold tavern, but Lady Montilyet instead pulled him in to formal introductions with Alistair’s other guests, including a talkative Teyrna who drooled at the chance to meet Lady Morrigan and kept shooting jealous looks at the Inquisitor, whose arm Alistair still had not released.

Within minutes, the King and Inquisitor slunk into the shadows and disappeared from the party. At the banquet table, Connor had been surrounded by friends. Now, he was stuck talking with nobles who weren’t half as interesting.

_I wish I could sneak out—or at least talk with the people I already know._

The Teyrna had an uninvited hand on his arm and was breathily inquiring about Uncle Teagan’s plans for summer soirees. Lady Montilyet gave him a sympathetic look over the Teyrna’s shoulder.

“I have not heard yet, My Lady, but I certainly will tell him of your interest in Redcliffe’s wool trade. If you’ll please excuse me, I see someone I promised to meet.”

He gently but firmly extricated himself from her grip and Lady Montilyet deftly smoothed her into a conversation with other nobles. As inconspicuously as he could, he moved to the shadows between the balcony door and one of the fireplaces.

“What elegant robes, Enchanter Guerrin.” He was startled to see Leliana had silently made her way to his side. For this formal event, she wore no hood and her mischievous grin was clear despite the dim light.

“You would cause no small consternation at one of Madame de Fur’s fetes. Shall I ask Josie to acquire you an invitation to the Ghyslain Estate?”

He snorted out a humorless laugh.

“No, thank you, Sister Nightingale. Vivienne and her ‘ _Loyalist_ ’ allies would likely see me executed as an apostate. My loyalty is to Ferelden, not the Chantry—and I don’t share her lust for power.”

“So you’ve heard she’s a candidate for the next Divine.” Leliana was serious as steel now.

“You would be a better Divine.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you want to return to the founding principles of mercy and charity. Without them, Thedas is doomed to endless war.”

She gave him one of her rare, sweet smiles that she usually only had for her birds and fireside chats with Lady Montilyet. When delivering messages for Fiona, he often saw Leliana in the aviary or the Ambassador’s office—the only two places he’d ever seen her happy.

As much as he wanted to leave it on that friendly note, he felt compelled to voice another concern. He and Dagna discussed it often, and she would never forgive him for missing this chance to ask.

“And . . . you might let the College of Magi re-form, independent of the Chantry.”

She laughed, but not unkindly.

“I shall consider your words, Enchanter Guerrin. Enjoy your evening.”

She went to join Josephine’s conversation and he took the last chair at a table of Skyhold colleagues who felt perfectly at ease playing tavern card games in the King’s parlor. When he next looked up, Leliana and Lady Montilyet were gone and everyone else appeared deeply rooted in quiet fireside conversations.

When he finally retired for the evening, it was sometime past the change of the midnight watch. Someone had recently built up the fire and the bedroom felt pleasantly cozy. Connor carefully hung his new robes in the wardrobe of his guest suite, slid between the soft, warm sheets with a contented sigh, and drifted into sweet Fade dreams filled with peace and generosity.


	8. The unknown

Connor rose mid-morning and enjoyed an informal breakfast buffet in the dining hall with a variety of Alistair’s guests. Everyone seemed comfortable with him, even though he was a mage, the King’s cousin, and an agent of the Inquisition.

_Perhaps there is hope for peace amongst Thedas’ people after all._

The King’s Steward personally saw to the packing of Connor’s luggage and asked him if the staff could be of any further service.

“Thank you, Hill. You may tell my cousin I have been well cared for.”

The Steward bowed and left to see to the King, leaving Connor to meander his way down to the courtyard where footmen and stable hands readied the Inquisition’s horses for the journey home to Skyhold. There was no rush: He could hear the magic songs of the Inquisitor and Lady Morrigan still emanating from the royal wing, hear Alistair’s Warden blood up there, too.

He stood outside in the warm sun at the top of the stairs, enjoying the view of the cheerfully bustling people below. He heard the three powers from upstairs make their way, one-by-one, to the foyer behind the main door and he readied his heart to say farewell to Alistair for however long they might be parted again.

Then something wrong happened.

The Inquisitor’s bright thrum of Fade magic had been a soaring song in his head. Now, it plunged into a chord of darkness and raced away, a decrescendo into the distance.

_She’s leaving without us._

Connor spun to reach for the door, but it was already opening.

Alistair led Lady Josephine, Lady Morrigan, and Leliana out into the sun. All four of them wore mournful expressions no one expected from last night’s banquet revelers. The ladies and Alistair exchanged formal parting words. The Inquisition’s representatives curtsied and bowed and walked down the stairs to join their entourage.

Alistair turned to face him. His grey eyes held unshed tears and his lips quivered. Connor wasn’t sure if he should touch him, if it would help or hurt.

“Alistair?”

“I—I don’t know . . .”

“ _I didn’t know_ ,” he whispered to himself, then gave Connor a pleading look.

“Can you sense if she’s . . . unharmed?”

He could hear the echoes of her Fade magic, indicating that she was alive and in what general direction she was headed.

“She hasn’t left Denerim.”

Alistair nodded and spoke no more. Connor gave him his usual hug and Alistair choked out a little sob before straitening and forcing a fake smile toward the guests down in the courtyard.

Heart heavy for the cousin he loved and the Inquisitor he respected, Connor mounted his horse and rode toward the gate with the others. By the stone guardhouse, he saw Varric and The Iron Bull talking together quietly. They held the reins of their own mounts, plus the reins of the Inquisitor’s Ferelden Forder. He stopped his horse by them.

“North, north-east. As far as you can go without leaving the city.”

They grimly nodded their thanks and Connor rode on with the rest of the Inquisition’s delegation. Even as the miles grew between his party and Denerim, he could hear the dim echo indicating the Inquisitor remained alive and stationary behind them. He remained tense in the saddle, attention mostly focused behind them, trusting his horse and companions to know the way and alert him if he was needed.

At dusk they made camp. He sat and dutifully ate without noticing the taste of whatever was handed to him at the communal fire.

A short time later, he heard the Inquisitor’s song leaving Denerim. It was muted, missing its usual spark of fire, but it was her and she was moving toward Skyhold.

He sighed in relief and his shoulders slumped, sore from being held so tight all afternoon. He got up to find Leliana, waited until the forward scout finished reporting to her so that they could speak alone.

“They found her,” he said. “They’re headed home.”

She nodded, squeezed his shoulder, and they went to their tents in silence, unsure of what they would find in their Inquisitor when she returned to Skyhold.

-

During their second day on the road, Connor sensed the Inquisitor overtake and pass them, riding parallel to their route, out of sight somewhere on their west flank. He spurred his mount forward to Leliana’s side.

“They’ve passed us, moving with all speed.”

She nodded and he fell back to ride with some of his fellow mages, who chatted happily about the banquet and King’s romance, oblivious to the tension felt by Connor, the Spymaster, and the Ambassador.

Each morning and nightfall, for the rest of the journey, Leliana and Lady Montilyet took a quiet moment alone with him so he could confirm for them that the Inquisitor was alive, and estimate her approximate location between their slower-moving party and Skyhold.

While his own group was still two days out from Skyhold, he sensed her return to the place where Solas’ quiet magic sang in whispers. Connor immediately rode up to Leliana’s side and caught Lady Montilyet’s eye. The Ambassador brought her horse over to walk by his other side.

“She’s home.”

“Is she . . .” Lady Montilyet was at a loss for words.

“All I can determine is that she is alive and at Skyhold,” he loosely gestured with his hand toward the west. “Her . . . magic, it’s just as strong, but doesn’t sing with the same loud fire as before.”

Lady Montilyet closed her eyes and bowed her head. Leliana pursed her lips and stared forward like she was resolved to plunge into a battlefield of darkspawn in a fight to the death. Clearly they knew what had devastated Alistair and the Inquisitor, why she had fled, but Connor knew it was none of his business; all he had to do was to be ready to help in any way they requested.

“Is there anything else you need, My Lady?”

Leliana shook her head and Connor fell back to ride as alone as he could in such a large group. The last two days of the ride were each as long as that first night after the destruction of Haven.

-

When they rode into Skyhold, Dagna was waiting for him at the stables. He handed his horse off to a groom and got down on one knee to wrap his best friend in a desperately fierce hug, trying to squeeze out all the sorrow he’d felt on the long ride home.

“Her blood still sings,” Dagna whispered in his ear, “but she acts and talks like a Tranquil.”

He nodded, rose, and put an arm around her shoulders to walk to the undercroft together.

“What do we do?” she asked.

“We wait for her to tell us what she needs.”


	9. A life of magic

For the next several weeks, the Inquisitor remained in her private rooms or sequestered in the war room with her advisors. No one other than Dagna, Connor, and Lady Trevelyan’s inner circle seemed to notice or feel it odd.

The day before the Inquisitor left to march on the elven temple in the Arbor Wilds, Connor and Adan packaged extra potions for her party and Cullen’s troops. Connor made sure to personally touch each package to push a little regenerative magic in. If Adan noticed, the potions master didn’t say anything.

Connor hoped to see Lady Trevelyan before she left for the Arbor Wilds, but Fiona and some senior enchanters cornered him in the library for an intense debate about the College of Magi and he missed seeing the Inquisitor before she rode out. He heard her unexpected return with Solas through Morrigan’s Eluvian in the Skyhold garden. By the time he ran up the undercroft steps to the main hall, she was already locking herself in the war room with the others until well into the night.

He couldn’t very well camp out in front of the Ambassador’s fireplace to wait for her—it would generate awkward questions and likely start scandalous rumors—so he went to his own room and missed her again the next morning when she and Morrigan led a party out to the Altar of Mythal.

“Have you seen the Inquisitor since Denerim?” he asked Dagna that afternoon.

She hadn’t, and Connor couldn’t shake the feeling that he _had_ to see Lady Trevelyan soon—like a sizable wave of destructive magic was welling up somewhere, and somehow he could help . . .

He didn’t know why it was important, but he wouldn’t let another opportunity to see her slip past him.

-

It was late, but Connor felt compelled to take some sort of action, so he busied himself fortifying potions in the undercroft while Dagna kept him company.

“Those sound pretty potent,” she said, cocking her head to listen to the silent music of magic he wove into them. She wrinkled her nose. “Smell like it, too.”

He chuckled, comforted by her company and the repetitive task in front of him.

“I—”

He dropped the herbs he was holding and clapped his hands over his ears as the thrum of the Inquisitor’s Fade magic burst open somewhere in the upper levels of the keep. Dagna’s eyes were wide with shock.

“Wow, Connor, I’d forgotten how loud she was. She must be feeling bet—”

_Boom!_

The mountain and all of Skyhold shook with the sound of a giant explosion. He grabbed a bag of potions, she grabbed some life ward amulets, and they raced up the undercroft steps, through the main hall, and out into the dark courtyard with everyone else in Skyhold.

The violent green Breach in the sky was torn open again over Haven.

Most of the Inquisition troops were still on the march back from the Arbor Wilds. The Inquisitor wouldn’t have enough help if she rode after Corypheus now, yet she was running for the stables with Morrigan, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas, with just a handful of guards pulled from the Skyhold battlements to ride with them.

Connor ran after her and was nearly trampled by her horse as she turned.

“Inquisitor!” He shoved the sack of potions in her hand. They were the best ever crafted, but it was actually an excuse for him to touch her hand with his own. He pushed the power of fierce lightning and racing fire into her to magnify her Fade magic.

She gaped at him.

_Now you know why I’ve never let you touch me._

“These potions will serve you better than any other. Now, go!” He slapped her horse on the hindquarters and she was off. Dagna tossed the amulets to Solas as the rest of the party followed suit.

_She must triumph tonight, or the world is lost._

No one said it. Everyone knew it.

“Don’t be scared.” Dagna took his hand.

“I’m not.” He squeezed her hand. “With or without us, she would still find a way to win.”

They sat right where they were on the grass outside the stables, leaning shoulder-to-shoulder in silence, watching the black-and-green sky. Other people came out of their tents, the keep, and the tavern to weep and shake their fists at the new Breach, but Connor felt very calm: He could hear the dissonant song of the magic at the Temple, and he could hear the thrum of Lady Trevelyan’s Fade magic rushing toward it. He knew which was stronger.

A few hours later, the two tunes of magic clashed like cymbals and drums. One scraped against the other like the scream of a green terror demon, then was drowned out.

“Can you hear it?” He whispered.

He felt her nod against the side of his arm.

Then a massive beam of green light shot from the world up to the heavens and the Breach imploded on itself, shaking the ground and echoing a boom to every corner of Thedas.

“He’s dead,” Dagna said. “What will we do now?”

“Help however we can.”

-

The triumphant Inquisitor returned smiling from her final battle. As soon as she swept in the front gate, she dismounted and hugged Connor and Dagna—Dagna squealed in delight. Then Lady Trevelyan asked Leliana if she could borrow a Denerim homing pigeon, and snuck off with Lady Morrigan for a private conversation.

Just a few days later, it was announced that the Inquisitor was stepping down from her post and moving to Denerim—to marry King Alistair Theirin and become Queen of Ferelden.

“I _knew_ it!” Dagna clapped her hands in delight. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I technically didn’t know,” Connor said, “And it wasn’t my story to tell.”

“I hear her in the garden.” She grabbed his hand. “Let’s go congratulate her!”

They arrived just in time to see Lady Morrigan transform herself into a formidable Griffon.

“Wow,” Dagna breathed. “You’re prettier than a Warden painting!”

The Griffon haughtily tossed her head and preened. Lady Trevelyan waved farewell, climbed onto the Griffon’s back, and off they flew for Denerim.

“Do you still want to go back to Denerim, too, be arcane advisor to the King?” Dagna turned to look up at him, her expression unreadable.

“It’s a possibility.

“What about you? Your workbench is covered in letters from nobles trying to steal you away from the Inquisition. I think I even saw some from Empress Celene in Orlais and Maevaris Tilani in Tevinter.”

“And live a whole continent away from my best friend?” She beamed at him. “Not on your life.”

“Well, then, what of all our plans for the College? Shall we petition Divine Victoria for permission to establish an independent College of Magi?”

“Leliana’s not Divine yet,” Dagna giggled.

The coronation wouldn’t be for months yet, and Leliana was still working with Lady Pentaghast and Commander Cullen to restructure the Inquisition into a service organization for the poor and displaced. Then Leliana would step down, too, leaving the Inquisition independent of both Chantry and monarchy.

“She will be soon. Best to ask as soon as possible.”

And so the next step in their future began much like the night they first met in the Ferelden Circle Tower: Sitting together to talk about books and planning a life full of magic.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Check out my Pinterest board for this story at https://www.pinterest.com/dafan7711/connor-guerrin-by-dafan7711-on-ao3/
> 
> Looking for romance? You can read The King and the Inquisitor at http://archiveofourown.org/works/4366598/chapters/9908555.


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